


Keys

by Janekfan



Series: TMA prompt fics [13]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, Sick Character, Sickfic, Strained Relationships, Tea!, accidental overdose on cold medicine, because it's not MAG if there's no TEA!, even when he tries to take care of himself Jon is out of luck, keys!, sick Jon, sick tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: so i have a personal headcanon that Jon and Tim gave each other their spare apartment keys back when they were still in research, because neither of them know many people they trust for emergencies. so what if, idk. there was an emergency? :)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: TMA prompt fics [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912
Comments: 21
Kudos: 246





	Keys

**Author's Note:**

> As always! A stellar prompt from Taylor!

It wasn’t a surprise when Tim called out for the third time in a row, but Jon was getting worried. He was usually so hale that to be laid low like this was really out of the ordinary and Jon spent all day waffling between going to check up on him and minding his own business. They each had a key to each other’s flats for emergencies, considering they were, as Tim put it, two eligible bachelors living a lonely life. 

This was an emergency? 

Right?

Or something like one?

It was probably too late really to go back on his decision considering he was already on the train and he checked again on the contents in the bag despite having checked out front of the tesco immediately after their purchase. Lemsip, some sort of blue sports drink because he remembered Tim saying it was superior to all other colors, his favorite soup, popsicles for his throat if it was sore, tissues, crackers, tea, honey, lozenges...

Maybe it was too much. 

Maybe he’d forgotten something. 

Jon checked again as he stood shifting nervously from foot to foot outside the flat before knocking quietly and letting himself in. 

“Tim?” He slipped off his shoes, glancing around the sitting room before locating him curled up on the bed seemingly caught in between hot and cold. Tucked up in a veritable _mountain_ of blankets and quilts, he had one leg hanging off the bed. “Hey, Tim.” 

“Nnnngh…” 

“I thought as much.” Shivering and sweating, he looked absolutely godawful when Jon folded back the covers; sniffling and coughing and making pathetic little noises that Jon responded to sympathetically. “When’s the last time you had any medicine?” Tim shrugged with one shoulder, hair messy and sticking up in all directions, but he’d been sleeping for a little while and when Jon pressed the inside of one wrist against his blazing forehead he decided it had probably been long enough. He poured an electric glass of blue and handed Tim an open blister pack of pills, waiting until he’d downed both before tucking him back in and gently shushing his muttering. 

Jon unpacked the rest of his supplies, leaving them where Tim would easily find them, now confident that he’d made the correct call before checking in on him one more time. Asleep and considerably less flushed, Jon felt alright leaving him, placing a note with instructions to call him should he need anything else underneath a glass of neon liquid and leaving the way he came. 

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Jon had been feeling out of sorts all weekend and coming into work certainly hadn't alleviated any symptoms. If anything, he felt worse and though Martin did what he could and made him tea and made him go home relatively on time, Tim was just angry; snapping at him when he blocked the narrow archive hallways, slow from still healing injuries and aches brought about by his cold and drawing attention to the fact that Jon was damaged goods. It wasn't a good feeling, especially when Sasha seemed to join in on the fun in her backhanded way. Or maybe not really at all? Maybe he was misinterpreting it, probably. They’d been so upset with him lately and his paranoia and he didn’t mean to, really he didn’t. Rather than think on it any longer, Jon let his head fall to his desk, closing his eyes against the thin line of hallway light because even that small amount was like looking into the depths of the sun. 

Couldn’t record. 

Couldn’t research. 

Couldn’t ask anyone for help with either task. 

Or for. Well. For help at all, really.

And he thought he might like a little help at the moment. Someone to bring him lunch knowing he wasn’t feeling well even though he wouldn’t be able to eat it. Checking in to see if he was set on medicine. Asking after him so he could deny feeling so poorly only for them to see past it and send him home. 

He wished someone would just… _see_ him. 

He'd always had trouble accepting that his actions had consequences and learning those types of lessons never had been his strong suit. 

Martin’s tea was the one bright spot in his day. He could and did look forward to that in the afternoon. Would just lay here until then. Waiting for a bit of perfectly steeped comfort. And he didn’t disappoint because if Martin was anything, he was reliable. 

“Jon, you look dreadful.” Blessedly, the light was still off because Martin was smart like that, in the little ways that really mattered, and he was silhouetted against the door, blocking the beams just waiting to fall over him and dig the icepick deeper. When he opened his mouth to answer, nothing came out, lips forming around the shapes of the words he’d tried to say and quickly forgotten in mild surprise at how sore his throat was. He reached for the tea with trembling hands and when did that happen? Pulling it towards him across the desk and sipping from the rim without lifting it. Hot. Lovely. Full of honey and lemon and the noise he made was wholly unprofessional. Humming, he let his eyes close, taking another swallow. “I think you should go home early.” Large and cool against his skin, Jon leaned into the palm on his forehead. “Yeah, you’re burning up, you shouldn’t be here.” Sad at being scolded, Jon hid in his tea and Martin let him finish, pen scratching against a scrap of paper. “Can you make it on the train?” Probably? He made it here didn’t he? 

“Y’yes, Martin.” 

“Ah, there you are.” 

“Thank you. For, for the tea.” Really. 

“‘Course. Now, here.” He pressed the note into his hand, wrapping his scarf around his neck after he did so while Jon tried to parse the information. “You’re to stop off at the chemist, all right?” Jon nodded, the squiggles dancing in front of him and he knew Martin’s handwriting wasn’t that bad. “Give that to them, they’ll help you collect the medicine, alright?” A hand on his shoulder caught his attention. “Alright?” He nodded again. “I’d go with you, but, my mum.” And again. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own? I could ask Sasha or Tim--”

“No! No, no need to bother them. I’ll, I’ll be fine.” He could feel Martin looking him up and down, he could feel the weight of his disbelief. 

“I’ll see you to the door.” Gently, he steered him through the archives, “I’ll be texting. You’ll be answering.” Nodding, he knew Martin was watching him as he set off towards the station.

By the time Jon staggered into the sitting room, he was ready to collapse. He was weighed down by several medications and the instructions on how to take them and he would make sure he took them. And drank water. Because Martin said and he’d been disappointing so many people lately that the thought of disappointing one more made tears sting the corners of his eyes. A buzzing woke him from where he’d fallen asleep on his couch. 

_Did you make it home?_ Oh. Yes. Martin did say. Jon stared at the screen before shoving himself up. He should take some medicine and go to bed. Bed, that sounded lovely. Laying down sounded lovely. 

_Yes, thank you, Martin._

_Good, get some rest. DO NOT come in tomorrow._

_Yes, Martin._ He waited a few seconds before sending again, _Thank you, Martin._

The next day passed in a blur of different medications, glasses and mugs of water, and shifting from bed, to couch, to overstuffed chair in his restlessness, sleeping hours wrapped up in each in between responding to Martin’s texts. 

Martin was surprised, to say the least, at how well Jon was keeping in touch. He responded to each inquiry within a few hours, hopefully spending the time between resting, was taking medicine, and keeping himself hydrated. Martin was. Well, he was a little stunned, to be honest. 

_Got medicine. Even a glass of water._ He’d included a blurry picture of said glass and it was so Not Jon, Martin’s laugh got away from him. 

_Doing fine, thank you, Martin._ His standard response. 

_You don't have to keep checking on me._ What Martin was sure was his guilty response. 

_I'm alright._ There was more and more time in between these. More time, and fewer words, and worry settled heavy in his stomach. 

_tired_ Unnerving. 

And then on Saturday, nothing at all. 

Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong and when Jon didn’t text back, or pick up the phone when he called on repeat, he rang Tim. 

“Martin.” No. There was no way he was going over there. He’d sooner chuck the key into an open drain and walk into the next fear ritual voluntarily than check on him. 

“Tim, I, I can’t, or I would. Please. _Please,_ you have a key and I just know he’s in a bad way.” He sighed. Martin’s voice was shaking on the other end of the line and Tim knew that if he could have been there for Jon, he'd be there already. "Just, just a quick look. To make sure--to make sure."

Make sure. 

" _Please_ , Tim."

"I. Fine. Fine. Five minutes, that's all I'm wasting on him." 

All told, Jon didn't live more than a few stops away and Tim thrust his hands into his pockets angrily, hunching into the collar of his coat and swearing under his breath. Jon was fine. He was ignoring Martin because that's what he did to people. At the door he stood waiting before finally rapping his fist sharply against it. 

"Oi! Jon!" A few seconds of silence and he was counting down his promised minutes. Cheating he supposed because he had yet to see him, but whatever. "Open up! It's Tim!" Who else would it be, you miserable, paranoid, overblown librarian. He'd have to use his key and even touching it made his stomach flip. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be far away from here and he couldn't even do that. But for Martin, he twisted the key in its matching lock, shoving into a chilly sitting room strewn with half-empty mugs and glasses of water littering each flat surface. "Jon?" No sign of him yet, he could have stepped out. Tim picked up his phone, balanced on the edge of a scratched and worn table. A string of missed calls and increasingly panicked messages ending finally in threats to send Tim I know you have a key Stoker. "Christ." He wasn't in bed, the small thing practically hidden beneath every blanket in the place and he pushed into the bath, flicking on the light like he'd suddenly appear and gawping like a fish when he did. 

Curled up on the freezing tile, shivering fit to fly apart and soaked through with sweat, lay one ailing Jonathan Sims. 

"Jon?" Ashen and struggling to breathe, he didn't respond until Tim kneeled and shook one bony shoulder and even then it took far too long for him to become anything other than barely aware. Face twisting up, Jon blinked, pulling in a labored lungful of air and gearing up to use it. 

“T’Tim? How…?” Fucking hell, even with a foot out the door--

“Enough with the paranoia!" The flinch was like a physical blow and Jon began hacking unproductively into his folded elbow. 

“S’sorry...din’t…” Breathless and trying hard to catch it. Flooded with guilt, Tim dragged a hand down his face. Here he was in his flat, miserable and ill and now Tim was here out of nowhere shouting at him? “Sorry. D’you n'need somethin'?” He’d always been small, a subject of much contention when things used to be good, but his voice, small and tired--he was barely there, skin and bone, burning away into nothing if the flush high in his cheeks meant anything. He was just sick. Hit hard with a bad flu and trying his best to manage it alone. And how did that make him even angrier? There was medicine scattered around and he even had an empty glass on the floor with him--he'd been _trying_ and instead of just asking for some damn help! 

"Do I--no!" Yelling at a half naked man lying on the floor. Nice Tim. What energy Jon had was gone, and he was back to gasping between words, confused. 

"Then… I, I don't… What--" He heaved for another gulp of air, like he couldn't get enough. 

Multiple types of meds, some with overlapping ingredients. Idiot had probably overdosed himself on the different kinds, too disoriented to keep careful track. 

"Jon, how much did you take?" Tim grabbed him now, fingers digging painfully into his hot, hot skin. 

"Dose… the, the dose." 

"How much?" He demanded and Jon whimpered, ducking his head. 

"I, I--" Shaking harder now and crying silently, huge tears rolled down his face. He was scared of him, afraid and pushing himself off the tile in an attempt to put more distance between them only succeeding in bouncing his temple off the tub. With a hoarse cry he curled into himself, and he'd hate the comparison, but like a dying spider. Hunched forward and protecting his no doubt aching head with gangly too thin limbs. "Instructions… M’Martin said. Said water an’ an’..."

Tim was terrible at this. Barging in, yelling and shouting. Jon probably didn't know which way was up, let alone how much medication he took trying to get through this by himself with his only connection being the phone he'd left on the table. Clearly, he hadn't been well enough to retrieve it. 

Damn it, Jon.

"Let me see." Another squeak, wretched and sneaking from his throat. "Jon." Stern, not angry, scooching forward and he could see one red rimmed and wary eye peeking between his fingers and the curls escaping from their tie. "Lemme take a look." Gently and after a moment's more scrutiny he was allowed to touch, to guide his trembling hands away, brush back the tangles to examine the forming bruise. It didn't look too bad. Certainly no more than either of them had experienced before. What was bad was the heat under his palm, the tiny shivers, the way his chest stuttered trying to pull each breath into his body. “Okay, the floor isn’t the place for you.” 

“S’sorry. I--” Cut off by another fit, this one harder than the last, and it left him winded, apologies forced out by halves. “Been d’dizzy…” 

“You don’t need to apologize for being ill, Jon.” 

“M’sorry.” Tim sighed, reaching for him again and hating the way he shrank away. But he supposed just minutes ago he was shaking him.

“S’alright, boss.” Relieved by the way the old nickname relaxed him, he hefted him up and Jon was like a new colt trying out his legs for the first time, hands fisted in Tim’s shirt, inhale, exhale, shallow and fast. 

Safely deposited on the bedside, Tim handed him an oversized shirt from the half-open drawer, recognizing it as his own, left behind sometime before. It would have been big on Jon back when they worked in research but now. The fight to yank off the sweat soaked tee took it out of him, evidenced by the way Jon had just tossed it on the floor and now he was bare chested, ribs beginning to show, all scarred skin and exhausted shaking. Tim hated it; this man was a stranger and he shouldn't be. He slipped his shirt over his head, leaving him to figure out how to get his arms through the sleeves. 

“Lay down.” He’d arranged the pillows to keep him up off his back while breathing was still a chore. “Text Martin.” Tim pressed the phone into his hand, stepping away and returning with a cold compress, smoothing it over his forehead and checking to make sure he’d fired off a message. It was short and poorly spelled, but Tim knew it would put Martin at ease, especially when he followed up in a moment or two.

And he sat at the other end of the bed. Feet up and legs laid beside Jon’s. 

Watching. 

Watched.

Until even half out of his mind, Jon had to ask. 

"Y’you’re staying?" Eyes barely open and just above a whisper.

"Well.” Tim crossed his ankles and took out his own phone to pass the time, settling into a comfortable position. “Since you went ahead and poisoned yourself, guess I have to." He nudged his blanketed thigh with a toe. “Go to sleep, Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did the same thing Jon did once, accidentally of course! I had bad, baaad bronchitis for like 5ever and it turns out albuterol and too many doses of nyquil make it harder to breathe D: I thought I'd done myself in! But I lived! :D


End file.
